The Forgotten Year
by amethyst noir
Summary: When Joe's family is in danger because of him and the only way to save them is to go against everything he believes in, he can only come up with one rational conclusion: Run hide, and never come back...Re-post/Rewrite, see A/N inside.
1. Flashbacks & Psychiatrists

**A/N: ** I have, with every permission, begun editing and rewriting Sleuth Girl's old and forgotten series "Behind Darkened Eyes." She is a good friend and fellow FF writer who, per request, has sought me out to help her bring her stories back to life. We both saw the potential and so the project is now underway. She has deleted the first edition of this story from her account and has given me all rights to post my version here. If you have any questions or discrepancies please don't hesitate to contact either I or Sleuth Girl. Thank you and please do read and enjoy, new and old readers of this wonderful series of stories.

**Disclaimer:** I, nor Sleuth Girl, own the characters created by Franklin W. Dixon. I also don't own any original characters throughout this story, those are the figments of Sleuth Girl's own imagination

**Warning:** Rated for eventual adult situations, language, and violence.

_Original story author: Sleuth Girl; Rewrite author: Amethyst Noir._

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**_The Forgotten Year:_**

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**_Acquainted with the Night_**

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet_

_When far away an interrupted cry_

_Came over houses from another street,_

_But not to call me back or say good-by;_

_And further still at an unearthly height_

_One luminary clock against the sky_

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right._

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_-Robert Frost_

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_**Chapter 1: Flashbacks and Psychiatrists**_

**"**_**All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." -Anatole France**_

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Over the next year his life will change completely. A black hole absorbing his loves, fears, friendships, and life itself. He will never be able to look back at this year with the same eyes ever again. In his mind it will forever become know as..._The Forgotten Year._

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Joe Hardy looks out to his peers, their eyes shining from underneath their graduation caps. Stepping off the stage in the Bayport University auditorium he sees Frank and his mother. _They are proud of you._ But along with the joy in his heart there is also steely regret and slow burning dejection. Fenton Hardy is not with them. As usual, Joe tells himself that his father is on an important case. He breathes in deeply, holding back tears he knows he won't shed, but wants to. He is twenty-two years old and will not tolerate a single tear to escape, especially now. His breaths become sighs, and the moisture in his eyes slowly subsides.

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Frank Hardy sees his brother's dejected expression as he looks out to them in the crowd. He knows his fiery sibling is not one to be taken lightly, especially when it comes to their father. Frank can feel his insides twist uncomfortably as he realizes that even if he manages to avoid the lightning soon to come, the thunder is just around the corner and the storm will not be calmed as easily.

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**Six Months Later:**

Running a hand through his blond hair he walks into the Bayhouse, a small, local restaurant down the street from his apartment. He picks up a New York Times and sits in his usual booth next to the window that looks out onto the harbor and the Rockaway Bay. The view from his window is breathtaking as always. Across the water he can make out the Manhattan Sky Line and bits and pieces of Coney Island in Brooklyn. The bay is calm, small waves hitting the creamy white beach just a boardwalk away from the restaurant. Seagulls scatter themselves upon the sand hunting for their breakfast. Warm sunlight shines down through the few, small clouds in the sky, never the less it is a chilly day, but the cold helps to clear his head. Breezy Point, New York has been his home for almost a year now, but nightmares about his previous life prevent any decent sleep he might encounter.

So far his new life is well accommodating. He has a good job, even if it isn't quite within the legal parameters in which he was previously in the habit of following. In all, he has a nice life, practically anything he wants, rarely any questions asked, and the one thing he loves especially, solitude. His employers have conceded, understanding that he has grown into the new lifestyle they provided (admittedly forcefully) for him better than they expected. They let him do things his own way, how he likes, under his specifications, as long as he gets his jobs done for them in the end; and he always does.

He is okay. He isn't perfect, but the way he figures it, no one is, so why hope for the impossible?

Slowly he reaches into his pocket and sets a small, black box he carries with him everywhere onto the freshly cleaned laminate table top. Opening it he gazes upon the diamond ring that rests softly atop purple velvet. The diamond, cut in the shape of a heart, is centered between two small amethysts, her birthstone, and is encircled with silver. He still dreams of what that night might have been like if his old life had traveled its true course. After another short moment he sighs, as usual, and places the small box back into his pocket where it will stay until he musters up another bout of confidence to look at it once again.

Fixing her apron and black polo shirt, Sara, a friendly waitress, walks towards him. A young woman, not more than a year or two older than himself, follows close behind. Sara is more than an acquaintance but less than a friend, she knows exactly what he eats every morning and just how he likes his eggs: sunny side up.

"Hey Joe, how are you?" she says in a honeyed, somewhat comforting voice, "Saw you come in, already got your order in. The usual right?"

He is always impressed with her unusual perception of him. "Right," he says with a smile, but his gaze slowly drifts to the young lady standing behind her, a small spark of curiosity running through his usually dispassionate thoughts.

Sara follows his eyes before realizing what, or rather _who_, he's staring at. "Oh, this is Gina Cardineli. Gina, this is my good friend, Joe." (He notices an odd emphasis on the 'good' which he feels is out of place) "Joe _Hale_."

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"So, you're the 'famous Joe Hale' I've been hearing about," Gina says pushing back a lock of short hair behind her ear as she sits across from him. She looks at his face, stirring her, by now, cold coffee. She is a remarkably beautiful woman. Chiseled, tan, pixie features, black severely elfin hair, and amazingly warm ebony eyes. She is different than anyone he has ever met before. Except for one.

She has nothing in common physically with Vanessa Bender, but her personality and easygoing smile matched Vanessa to a T. But of course, glancing at Gina's left hand he notices an enormous diamond ring. It figures that such a beautiful woman would be married.

He hypothesizes that this "relationship," or whatever one might call it, isn't going to last long. Ever since he left Bayport he has promised himself that he will not get emotionally attached or involved with anyone ever again. He has to be prepared for anything at all times and costs. He can't let his life get whipped away from him again. So he maintains as bleak a life as possible here.

Just hearing Gina talk about him in this way makes him laugh. He almost spits out a mouthful of coffee as she mentions the fact that she has "heard a lot about him." He knows there has to be some reason Sara introduced them, but he can't help playing along with her little white lie, even if he is simply messing with the poor woman for his own enjoyment. Living such an introverted lifestyle has such an easy way of putting a person into somewhat of a cynical state of mind.

"Oh? And what have you been hearing Ms. Cardineli?" Joe inquires grinning at her slightly astonished expression. This time she almost spews her own beverage.

"Uh...well...just that you are...well..." she begins. He laughs slightly and holds up his hand for her to stop grasping for a response to his admittedly adequate question.

"It's alright, you don't have to answer that. I know for a fact you haven't heard of me until this very moment. But I would like to know why Sara sent you after me," he says, forcing a bit of a lopsided smile onto his stubbly face.

"Sent me after you? What does that mean?" she asks, now giddily confused. "You make me sound like a-a bounty hunter or something!" Her eyes dance happily and her smile widens. He cringes at the poorly worded (in his opinion) sarcastic slur.

Joe scratches the side of his face, averting eye contact. "Come on. I know Sara's behind this. What did she tell you? 'Befriend the man, get him out, make him smile?' Who are you? What's your game Gina? I don't need any _help_." His voice is not as raucous as before.

Her face shifts from confusion, to shock, to near amusement. Clearly she doesn't understand what he is talking about. He muses silently: _Maybe she isn't after anything. Maybe._ But then she bursts into high pitched laughter (very annoying in his mind), and he realizes maybe she isn't _different,_ but just somewhat out of her mind.

"Something I said?" he mutters through grit teeth. She looks up and tries to compose herself, swiping at her eyes and twisting her gelled, partially spiked hair nervously.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry Joe. It's just what you said..." she licks her lips, "It's just so _ironic_."

He narrows his eyes. "Care to let me in on this irony?"

"Sorry." She coughs, though he can tell there really isn't anything in her throat. "Joe, I'm a psychiatrist. And no, Sara didn't tell me to 'befriend' you or lighten you up. No, I'm here because I want to be."

Joe's eyes widen. "I don't need a psychiatrist," he growls, then under his breath he mutters a curse directed at Sara.

"Don't worry Joe, I'm only here to get to know you. Sara just wanted me to talk to you. Not force my services on you," Gina explains, now completely back to her normal, composed, professional self. He eyes her suspiciously, his hand forming a straining fist on top of the diner table.

"Yeah, well I don't need your help, friendship, concern, and especially not your 'services,'" he replies, his tone slightly colder than he wants it to be. He can't help it though and doesn't think to apologize.

"I'm sorry if this inconvenienced you Joe." Her voice isn't hurt, just calm. "But you do seem hostile. Sara just wonders about you. I mean you come in here everyday, sit at the same table, eat the same food, read the paper. Everyday. It's so routine...and quite frankly unnatural."

Joe laughs darkly, staring out the window, gnashing his teeth so that the words he is thinking can't slip out. He directs his vision towards her again, but only to fix her with a steely glare.

Gina drains the rest of her coffee and stares at him deeply. He turns to face the window again but Gina's delicate hand moves his face back to face hers. He furrows his eyebrows in anger and bewilderment, but for some reason doesn't pull away.

"Have your eyes always been this way Joe?" she asks, infatuated with gazing at him. He shakes his head to remove her hand and break her concentration on his eyes.

"What the hell does that mean Gina?" he mumbles through the mystified thoughts coursing through his mind. Why did it matter what color his eyes were?

She thinks for a moment, contemplating. "Well they're just so, dark. Full of...emotion, but no...life," she answers still studying his features.

Joe is completely at a loss for words (and that is definitely not like him at all.) He reaches down, but he can't come up with anything to say. No sarcastic remark, no obvious truths, no crude comment. Nothing. He stumbles through his mind trying to think of something to respond with.

"Look...well...your eyes are just as dark Gina," he finally spits out defensively. He's not sure why, but all of a sudden he feels like he is a lot smaller, like she has ripped open a wound that hasn't been sewn shut for long enough. Like the small hole in his world has been magnified to ten thousand times it's original size.

"Yes, but not like yours Joe," she says with an apologetic smile. He nods in a sort of forgiveness.

Gina's expression grows lighter and he realizes she is now distractedly smiling at someone past him. Turning around he is met with an unfamiliar male face.

Apparently Gina knows him quite well because she jumps up from her seat, wraps her arms around him, and kisses him until-Joe assumes-she runs out of air. _Her significant other I presume, _he thinks amusedly to himself.

"Joe," Gina says bringing the man closer to him, "this is my husband, Tom. Tom this is Joe Hale."

He stands and shakes the man's hand. Tom is a couple of inches shorter than Joe's six feet and has the same dark brown hair as Gina, but his brown eyes are notably lighter than hers. His wide, obnoxiously white smile has him annoyed already.

"Ah Mr. Hale! I've heard _so_ much about you," Tom begins with a broad smile, but before he can continue Joe gives Gina a dark look while she pokes Tom in the ribs with her elbow and raises her eyebrows sharply at him. Joe decides that this new acquaintance is too confident for his own good and the annoyance sets in permanently.

"Well, it's nice to meet you anyways Joe," Tom says with a slightly less enthusiastic smile.

"Likewise," Joe mutters, now attempting to find a hole in the conversation in which he could leave and go on with the rest of his life, leaving these two far in his past, "You wouldn't happen to be a psychiatrist too would you?" he asks sardonically.

The look on Tom's face makes Joe grimace and wish he had kept his tongue. "I _am_!" the older man gasps. Joe shakes his head and grips the bridge of his nose exasperated. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," Joe sighs through his teeth, an icy curtness to his barely audible voice. Tom nods his head, oblivious to the sarcasm. Gina just laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around her husband's waist affectionately.

Gina smiles in Joe's direction. "Sorry."

Joe nods neutrally. "Well, I really must be going now," he says pushing past the couple. "But it was really nice meeting the both of you," he adds with a cynical smirk.

He gives a jokingly over gallant wave and bow combination and turns to leave. From behind he hears Gina call something like "see you around" and he tries his best to just ignore it.

But, to Joe's great concern, there is a sinking feeling in his gut. A feeling that he would indeed be seeing her "around." Although, he expects he will just have to wait and see what fate has in store for him. And one thing he knows for sure: Fate sucks.

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To be continued...


	2. Arguments & Regrets

_Original story author: Sleuth Girl; Rewrite author: Amethyst Noir._

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_**The Forgotten Year:**_

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_**Chapter 2: Arguments and Regrets**_

"_**He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal." - Gregg Levoy**_

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**Six Months Earlier:**

"Joe, drinking won't solve anything," Frank says taking the motorcycle keys from Joe's trembling hands. "You're better than that anyways and you know it."

"Why the hell do you care Frank," his younger brother hisses back. That night he was planning an excursion to Bayport's only bar, technically not even in Bayport, but right outside the city limits. He was thinking that maybe if he drank enough he could just forget about what had happened at and after his graduation. Guilt wells inside of him just thinking about his tirade in front of Frank and Laura, he shouldn't have taken his anger out on them, but there is no going back now.

Frank tries to stay calm, knowing that if he stoops to Joe's unpleasant level nothing good will come of it. "I care because I'm your brother," he says impatiently. His face is grim, but determined. "I can't stand here and watch you drive yourself to the point of getting hammered just so you can get even with Dad's ignorance!"

Joe's eyes widen for a fraction of a second at the way Frank has phrased his words. "I'm not trying to get even," he growls.

Frank's eyes blaze, finding it hard to keep cool when fighting his brother's ferocity. "Then what, Joe? Just getting drunk to get drunk? That's not like you. I know you're hurting, but alcohol won't reverse time or circumstances. When is enough finally enough with you?"

"If you can't answer those questions it's obvious you don't know me very well, _brother_." Joe immediately regrets his icy toned words, but knows that he's in too deep to back out now. A film of mist covers his vision for a moment and a shake attacks his throat, but he breathes deep and pushes onward. "Just leave me alone, Frank."

Joe's pronouncement cuts like a glass splinter in Frank's heart. "Joe...please..."

Joe clears his throat, barely able to make eye contact. "What?"

Frank sighs. "Please don't take this out on me. We can work through this. Dad..."

"Why do you think this is about Dad? Frank, it's not. I'm fine. Just give me the damn keys." Joe's voice is once again unstable.

"Joe, if this isn't about Dad, then what is it?" Frank's voice has elevated to an impatient snarl. He wants Joe to open up, but finds it hard to persuade him into it without a little force, even though he feels guilty for raising his voice towards his obviously emotionally tender sibling.

Joe pushes past Frank towards the door of their shared apartment. Though Joe spends a majority of his time at Vanessa's he keeps most of his belongings with his brother-and sometimes, like this particular moment, Frank hates living with him. Not because of Joe, but because of Joe's irrational and unpredictable temper.

The aforementioned temper touches the door handle but turns abruptly to face his brother again. "Please, Frank, let me go."

"I can't do that, Joe. You know this." Frank's voice is sadly firm.

Though in truth it sounds as if Joe is asking his brother to physically let him leave the apartment, the younger brother knows in his heart that he is in reality asking for his release emotionally. He knows Frank cannot actually prevent him from leaving, but he also knows his older brother will not forget the events taking place and will not leave Joe alone until he finds the root of what has clearly been causing the rift between them.

Joe's tough facade fades slightly. "Frank..."

"You're not seventeen anymore, Joe. You can't just run away from your troubles. Five years should have been enough time to grow up." Frank knows these words are harsh, but at this point it's the only way he might be able to get through to his brother.

Joe stares at his older sibling with unreadable, shadowed eyes. Frank takes a long breath and speaks again.

"I am _not_ going to let you out of here so you can get wasted and then attempt to drive yourself home...on a motorcycle no less!" he says gruffly, not holding back anymore. "Besides, I'm already going to have to deal with your temper in the morning with or without a hangover, so let's make it easier on both of us and just _stay home_ Joe. Get some sleep, rest will do you good."

Joe can already feel his head start to throb, another strong headache coming over him, worse than any hangover he'd ever experience. He hasn't told Frank, or anyone else, about them and isn't planning to, yet at least.

He averts his eyes finding it hard to fight with his brother when looking directly at all of Frank's reactions. "Just leave me alone. You have _no_ idea what I'm going through right now," he mutters under incensed breath.

"Look Joe, I'm done reasoning with you. If you won't listen to me I'm going to have to call Vanessa," Frank threatens. "Lately she seems to be the only one who can talk sense into you." He stares at his brother menacingly, though he feels guilty for bringing Joe's girlfriend into the argument now.

"That's not fair, Frank," Joe groans, annoyed. He clutches at his temple momentarily, the vision of Vanessa's crystalline blue-grey eyes marred with tears and bloodshot makes his heart sink lower than it already is.

Frank's lips tremble into a thin line. "It's my last resort."

Joe's fists curl uncomfortably, more angry at himself than his brother. "'Ness doesn't have anything to do with this. She doesn't need this." Shame and sadness cover Joe's face as he ways his options. He knows that he's done too much to her lately, she doesn't need anymore stress on their relationship. "Please..."

"Then don't make me call her." Frank keeps up his rough attitude, though looking at Joe's face rips him apart inside.

Joe, who has been leaning against the door, pushes away from it and away from Frank towards the opposite side of the apartment. "I just need some air." He opens the apartment's sliding glass door and steps out onto the bland cement balcony without another word, closing the door heavily behind him.

For a moment Frank considers following Joe and trying to talk things out some more, but then his reasoning gets the better of him. He doesn't want to irritate the situation anymore than he already has.

Stillness and silence surround him as he watches Joe gripping the balcony railing, breathing in the cool night air greedily. Frank isn't sure, and never will be, but he thinks that his brother may be crying.

An intense feeling of self loathing falls over the older brother. He and Joe rarely fight. Not only are they brothers, but best friends as well. He hates that this is shaking them so harshly.

Frank knows that his father didn't miss Joe's graduation on purpose. Fenton Hardy is a man set in his ways and when he is making a breakthrough on an important case nothing can divert him. But, unfortunately for their father, his determined personality is a blessing and a curse. On one hand it makes him a great detective, but handicaps him as a parent on the other. Both Joe and he know that their father loves them, but sometimes it isn't shown directly on the surface.

Frank can understand why Joe is so disappointed by his father's actions, but he knows that drinking isn't going to help. Especially if he were to receive a DUI.

With a sigh he looks out to the dark silhouette of his brother once more. He can't see him very well up against the ebony purple sky, but he's sure that he has calmed down, at least some. Frank runs a hand over his tired face and smiles grimly.

He knows his father is going to get a taste of Joe's bitterness soon and he hopes all will turn out okay. But knowing Joe, there will be difficulties, no matter what happens.

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**A/N:** Thank you all for reviewing/reading!

**MCR-1993:** Thanks for loving it so far, and yes I'm definitely continuing it!

**Ruby:** Agreed, but hey, you never know.

**Sleuth Girl:** I'm so excited to get this project underway and glad you are too!

**joehardyfan:** Thank you for your kind words, glad you're enjoying it!


	3. Too Little, Too Late

_Original story author: Sleuth Girl; Rewrite author: Amethyst Noir._

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_**The Forgotten Year:**_

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_**Chapter 3: Too Little, Too Late**_

_"**The suspicious mind believes more than it doubts. It believes in a formidable and ineradicable evil lurking in every person." -Eric Hoffer**_

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"I don't know what you want from me, son. I can't change what happened and I'm sorry," Fenton Hardy says to his youngest son.

Joe's eyes are full of sadness, but his voice full of scorn. "You have no idea how little that means to me right now," he mutters. He is still reeling from the emotional hang over he had woken up with.

Fenton's face was confused and sympathetic. "I'm sorry Joe, what more can I say?" he pleads.

Joe shakes his head bitterly, all impulses overriding any conscientious sense he may have in his mind. "Well there's a lot more that you _could _say but that will never happen, so I guess I forgive you for missing my graduation dad, I'm sure your case was a lot more important. It's funny how nothing important ever lands on Frank's achievements," Joe says half sarcastically to his father. He immediately bites his tongue, regretting his words heavily, but unable to give in and apologize.

Joe's eyes burn and he storms out of the living room, down a tight hallway and into his bedroom.

"Joseph Hardy! Don't you run away from me!..." Fenton yells after him, but doesn't physically carry out his word's intentions, not even bothering to get up from his seat at the boy's small kitchen table. Fenton's head bows and he massages his temples lightly.

"Don't worry Dad, Joe'll come around, he always does," Frank says, having witnessed the whole conversation neutrally, trying to reassure his father, though his voice sounds unsure.

Fenton heaves a sigh of exasperation. "I know, but this time I really messed up, Frank. I don't blame him for being angry with me," he utters in sad reply.

The moment Fenton leaves their apartment, Frank runs a hand over his face in frustration. His father is right, Joe will never live this down. He has taken too many insignificantly small blows from their father that this is the final straw that has broken the camel's back. _I just hope he'll be okay and not do something he might regret,_ Frank thinks to himself painfully.

He walks slowly to his bedroom, right across the hallway from his brother's, but first he stops at Joe's door. It is cracked open just a bit and Frank can see him lying on his bed with his headphones on. Frank can just barely hear the bits and pieces of whatever kind of heavy metal band Joe is listening to. This was the one thing Joe had never grown out of: falling fitfully asleep to blaring, mind jarring music.

Frank sighs, knowing Joe just needs time to cool off and that eventually he will give in and forgive their father. He just doesn't know how long it will take for Joe to cool off.

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**About 4 weeks later:**

A pair of formidable looking men sit across from Fenton Hardy as Frank and Joe walk into their childhood home curiously. Their father has called an emergency meeting.

Fenton rises as his sons make their way through the front entryway and into the kitchen. Both men stand as well, moving towards the brothers, friendly grins adorning their faces. "Boys I would like you to meet Roger Bernheart and Matthew Stevenson," Fenton introduces the two older men now standing in front of his sons.

Frank leans forward to shake hands with both men, as always, polite. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Bernheart, Mr. Stevenson."

As Joe, following his brother's lead slightly less enthusiastically, shakes their hands Roger says pleasantly, a hint of a New Jersey accent in his voice: "Please, Roger and Matt."

Joe breathes deeply, trying not to roll his eyes and plasters a smile on his face. The men obviously don't realize how observant the younger Hardy can be, knowing just when people were slightly too over the top to be realistic. "We've heard about you, Dad says you and he were quite good friends in college."

The taller, broader man, Matt Stevenson, shares a glance with Roger before answering with a smile. "Oh, yeah. We go way back, huh, Hardy?" The brothers' father grins widely in response to his old friend and Joe gives his dad a strange look, his brows furrowed.

"Fenton was always top of the class," Roger adds, a slick smirk wrapping his lips that seemingly only Joe notices.

"Well," Fenton says turning to his sons, "I bet you're wondering why Matt and Roger are here?" Frank nods while Joe looks just past his father's face, wanting to shake his head the opposite, feeling sardonic and wary about the whole situation, but holds back the urge. Fenton, not noticing Joe's blank stare, goes on. "Roger studied criminal psychology and Matt majored in criminology, like I did. They'll be assisting me on a few cases while they're in town."

Joe holds back a grimace while his brother responds, seemingly for both of them. "Great, it will be nice to have a couple of extra sets of eyes and ears around."

"Yeah, it's sure nice to be here. From the looks of it so far Fenton, you have a couple of intelligent and budding detectives here," Roger says glancing at them as if they were still in elementary school.

The man locks his gaze with Joe's. His eyes are gray, not a warm gray, but cold. There is something about Roger and Matt that still doesn't quite settle right with Joe. But considering his past actions he refrains from speaking with his father or Frank about his gut feelings. He is probably just over thinking things anyways. Maybe.

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Days later the tension revolving around the Hardys and their new associates has not dissipated. Joe still secludes himself from his father's gaze and Frank still carries a slightly guilty glint in his dark eyes.

"So what exactly are you working on?" Frank asks Fenton, trying to lift the awkward silence that had suddenly enveloped Mr. Hardy's office as his sons had entered. Roger and Matt are already there, partially causing the awkward silence.

Fenton seems distracted and hadn't even looked up when Frank and Joe had entered. "Drug ring, probably amateur," he replies shortly. Their father, though a renowned private detective, still likes to aide the local police forces when he can. He had many acquaintances in Bayport, especially in the precinct, and the more good acquaintances he had in town, the easier his local cases became. However, this one in particular seemed to be giving him some unusual trouble.

"Amateur, huh?" The soft, scoffing voice of Roger catches Joe's ear and he looks across the room. There is an annoying little smirk flittering on the older man's face as his eyes roll upwards toward the ceiling. Joe's brows furrow harshly.

"Oh?" Matt's more nervous sounding voice distracts Joe's attention. "Any leads yet?" Frank takes a seat in a leather upholstered chair next to his brother, opposite from Matt and Roger's perch on a matching couch. Joe chooses to keep standing, his back rigid, his fists curled tight.

Fenton's eyes are momentarily drawn to his old friend. "The tracks are surprisingly well covered. So nothing really strong to go on..." He looks back down at his notes but smiles and adds, "_yet_ at least."

Joe can't be sure but he thinks he sees the two older men share a secretive looking grin. Their eyes glint slyly in the soft glow created by a small desk light, a floor lamp in the corner, and whatever light is filtering in through the wooden blind covered window behind Fenton's desk.

Joe's clenched hands loosen as he watches Matt and Roger. Anxiously he runs his middle finger over the knuckle of his thumb and after a moment squeezes tight until the joint between his thumb and hand pops hollowly.

Fenton has gone back to pouring over a stack of papers on his desk and a few newspaper clippings. Frank seems interested in their father's actions, as does Matt. Joe follows both their gazes, but can't seem to be drawn into Fenton's work.

His mind is twisting around and, wondering if he has even had any water that day, sees a light-headed haze filter across his eyes and an ache form at the back of his head. Roger is staring at him now. Joe notices, but the dizzying effect of the previously mentioned ailments barely allows him to register the wicked looking grin the man flashes. Joe blinks slowly, but by the time he can see straight again Roger is no longer looking towards him.

Studying the two men before him again Joe wonders why, all of a sudden, they had decided to visit Bayport. Never once in his life has he seen or heard anything about them. Joe's thumb and middle finger switch places this time; another hollow pop.

Both men have such a suspicious air to them. Clearly they are hiding something, but what, Joe isn't quite sure. If he accuses them of criminal actions or mysterious behavior at this moment in time most likely he will look like and be made a fool.

Fenton Hardy is a firm believer in "innocent until proven guilty" and Joe is a firm believer in simple impulse and first impression.

He sighs shaking his head to loosen the crazy thoughts swirling around inside of it. He is obviously jumping to conclusions...right? He wonders sadly if Frank would even consider believing anything he said at this point. He had all but ruined their relationship in the past few weeks being moody, irritable and unpleasant.

He wished to God that he could rewind and swallow down all of his mindless impulses before they ever got a chance to leave his mouth. But now it was simply too little, too late.

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To be continued...


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